


Keep Time On Me

by Vixanator



Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-07
Updated: 2018-06-07
Packaged: 2019-05-19 08:11:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14870009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vixanator/pseuds/Vixanator
Summary: So Andy finally says it out loud and all Emily does is huff and throw a hand in the air. “At least Miranda will be pleased to know you’re no longer the torchbearer for having it all.”





	Keep Time On Me

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Fleet Foxes "If You Need To, Keep Time On Me"

_You're all humming live wires_  
_Under your killing clothes_  
_Get over here I wanna_  
_Kiss your skinny throat_  
\- Wasp Nest, The National

 

***

 

Summer hung low in the sky. The sunset painted orange and shadow across the backyard and Andy’s limbs felt warm. The porch of her parents’ house had changed little with the time. It was the same stained timber that Andy would stand at the edge of, her toes peeking over the edge, seven years old and ready to fly, or sprawl out along on with their dog, Molly for hours on end. In the present tense, her mother sits with her on the swingseat, beer in hand and her foot gently nudging them back and forth and back and forth. Andy is both old and young in this place. It’s been a hot summer in Indianapolis and the air around the porch seems to simmer.

Jack sits with Molly and the kids on the lawn. They are a happy tangle under the fruit trees. Molly is no longer a bounding labrador but an elderly figure for Andy’s niece and nephew to poke and prod. Beatrice giggles shrill everytime Molly slobbered all over her hand and Max has draped himself against the dog’s side. Jack looks content, gently patting Molly’s head with one hand and rubbing Max’s back with the other as the toddler dozes off. The few days they had spent here had been enough for his usually well kept scruff to become more like a beard.

Andy waits for her mother’s inevitable question about when she and Jack are planning on having kids. They had had this conversation countless times over the three years since she had married Jack. Her mother is a quiet woman about many things, but this was not one of them. Tonight though, the question did not seem to come. Maybe the heat was getting to her. 

When her mother does finally speak, it is not with her veiled interrogator’s voice but with one of a more hazy contemplation. “I think your father and I are going to do another trip in another couple of weeks.”

Andy’s parents had bought a caravan as their early retirement gift to each other. Andy personally could not think of anything worse than being cooped up on the road for days on end. Every couple of months though, her inbox would be flooded with photos from their latest adventure. Snaps of the hills, quirky shops, her Dad’s eyes shining and her Mom’s grin wide. Her parents love was a cosy one, well-worn and dependable. She looks at Jack and wondered if they could survive more than a couple of days cohabitating in such a tiny space. Climbing into taxi cabs and through airports was one thing. The cramped spaces carried cross-country, another. 

Andy does not want to think about how closeness, confinement, was not their issue, but distance. She sipped at her drink, taps her toe against the porch. There is a tugging at her stomach.

“How do you stay happy?” 

The question could be innocent enough, phrased generally and voiced lightly. But even Andy could hear the toughness in her tone. She can feel her mother’s careful eyes on her, her mouth probably puckered with concern. They were never a mother and daughter who had shouting matches. Andy is uncontainable when she is excited, but her mother always knew that it is a shy and reserved Andy that spells trouble. When she finally speaks, her words match Andy’s quietness. 

“Your father and I struggled at three years too. Matthew was only a baby and I was pregnant was with you. I used to pick fights with him all of the time.” 

Andy does not know how to explain herself. She does not yell at Jack. She just does not tell him things. But the distance is sometimes just as loud as if she had been screaming. 

“Things will be different once you have kids.”

There it is. 

The cluster under the fruit trees have finally given up and given into the heat. Max is tucked up fast asleep against Molly while Jack leans back against the trunk of the apple tree, eyes fluttering. Only Beatrice champions on, in an intense staring contest with a dreary eyed Molly.

Her Mom probably can see Andy and Jack’s kids there too, maybe an auburn-haired little girl resting on Jack’s chest. A baby nestled in Andy’s lap. And maybe here, in the place where Andy learned to crawl, to walk, to fly, she can see that too. But they don’t have a sunny backyard in New York. They don’t have long lazy afternoons to drift off in. Here they have quiet, there it is only noise. 

Andy sits and thinks about who she wants to be and the person her mother thinks she is. She wonders if they are the same thing.

 

  
***

 

Andy did really love travelling with Jack. He was the kind of person that people trusted almost right away. He puts people at ease, the steady timbre of his voice reassuring. When the airline could not find their seats on their flight back to New York City, Andy did not even need to ask him to sort it out. He touched a gentle hand to the small of her back then stepped closer to the counter to speak the disgruntled flight attendant. Andy went to sit off to the side, pulling her phone out to make some calls for work while she waited. 

While she talked to her junior editor, she watched Jack’s hands. They didn’t wave madly around his face, like she could imagine hers would have, like when she was first an assistant at _Runway_ , or point threateningly , like she could imagine hers would have, like in her last few months as an assistant. They hung calmly at his side, unless lifted in an open gesture. His face was understanding, but firm. 

She wondered how much of it was the police training and how much of it was just Jack. 

Andy had met him while writing an investigative piece on domestic violence law reform. The research had been an awful six weeks. She had prepared thoroughly before going out to do interviews. She had thought that the churning in her stomach from reviewing statistics, files, reports would be the worst of it. She walked around with her chest constricted for what felt like months. Every time she sat down with a woman at the shelter, walked into a home where fear filled every corner, listened to another story her ribcage curled tighter, her throat twisted closed. 

Jack had been checking up on a family that Andy was writing about. A young mum and her two sons, trying to hold onto some stability while living in a motel because they couldn’t go home. The knock at the door had made Andy jump, but felt herself ease at his reassuring expression, open hands and warm voice. The boys, irritable and cranky at being stuck indoors chirped up at the sight of him, even their tired strung out mother’s shoulders seemed to loosen. 

He apologised to Andy for interrupting her time with them, that he just needed to see how they were doing. Ever since the violence had escalated such that she and the kids had had to leave the house, Jack had been working with them. He came past every other day or so. 

He walked Andy out to her car afterwards. He listened to her talk about the article, how angry she was, how much more she wanted to help. 

“We can never do enough.” His eyes were so sad when he said that. The image of him, crestfallen against the grey of the car park stayed with Andy, would sometimes push up to the surface of her mind as she was working on final edits and revisions.

“We have to try all that we can.” His words dug under her skin, reverberated through her as she pieces together all that the families had shared with her and the failings of the system she had witnessed.

A few weeks later, after the article had come out, he approached her at a bar. She and a few reporters had gone out for a casual end-of-the-week drink. They huddled up at their usual table, piling coats and scarves on the spare seats. Andy had been nursing her beer quietly, letting the buzz around her wash away the droning in her head.

She almost didn’t recognise him. Faded jersey instead of a uniform. Hair ruffled. A smile. 

“It’s Andy, right?” he shook her hand. 

“Yes. It’s nice to see you again, Detective.”

“Please, call me Jack.” 

He joined her in her seclusion. Told her how he has read her article. Gone back and read it again. Told her that she had managed to capture the harsh realities, expose the cracks in the system while still paving the way for potential solutions.  
The two of them outstayed the rest, leaning against the table, wondering out loud. 

His hand had been warm on her thigh. Later, she traced his scrawled phone number on the back of a crumpled receipt. 

It was a few days before she called him, and a few more until they found a time to meet. He came to her apartment door with flowers and a kiss as a greeting. 

“I think you’re beautiful, Andy Sachs.” He had murmured as he pulled away. Her mind had spun, her heart unravelled. 

Their lives just seemed to slot into place. 

She likes that he knows what he is about. He never says anything he does not mean. He does not simper or whine like Nate did. He always looks her straight in the eye, his hands are always steady and his shoulders drawn back. 

She likes the straightforwardness of him, his serious eyes, and his kindness. 

She grabs onto him tight. Doesn’t look back. 

Jack had asked her to marry her one morning just like you would ask to pass the margarine. Andy had said yes, with a smile just like Christmas morning. 

They get married in the spring. His family are from upstate and the ceremony is in the tiny church in the town he grew up in. There were so many people, and flowers, and candles, and laughter, and tears. Miranda Priestly even sent her a gift, a set of delicate ornaments that even now sat still in their packaging for fear of breaking them. The card read, _Dear Andrea and Jack, I wish you all the happiness in the world_. It sounded like something an assistant may have, more than likely than not, written. 

They buy a house. It’s old, it’s small, it’s far from her job, but it has a yard and it’s all their own. They buy furniture and have barbecues with friends and get a dog from the shelter and paint the walls fresh. Andy and Poppy, the dog, adopt the sofa in the lounge, where the afternoon sun can light their Saturday naps. Some weekends Andy wakes up with Jack asleep at their feet, leaning back on the chair, hand curled around her ankle. 

“All sorted.”

Andy looks up and meets him with a smile, takes his hand and stands.

 

*** 

 

“Hey Andy, can you please help me with this?” 

Her team’s latest hire had been a bit of long shot. A trembling mouse of a girl, bundles of curly hair and squeaky voice. But her academic transcript had been strong, her sample writing intriguing and referees adamant that she was a real talent. Andy had long learnt the lesson not to be too quick to judge someone on first impressions. She had sat in on the interview, fought her manager to choose her over the others. So now she was making damn sure that this girl proved her to them all. 

“Sure thing, Harriett. I’ll be there in just a minute.” Andy shot her a reassuring smile as Harriett skittered away. 

The politics team bubbled away nicely for Andy’s taste. Just when she would begin to get restless, things would boil over as another scandal broke or story developed. The manager had gone on maternity leave and Andy relished being able to take over the reins. 

She had moved to this magazine after years toiling away at _The Mirror_. She had hit the ground running after Paris. She had dived in and did not come up for air for about two years. It had been so exhilarating to finally be writing, to finally feel like she was making a difference even if she was so far down the ladder. This is what she had come to New York City to do, not to grovel at the Louis Vuitton clad feet of people who cared for little beyond themselves. 

Andy had been so engulfed in it all, so immersed in just wanting to do her very best that she almost did not see it coming. She had known that the politics team had an opening, that the spot would be an invaluable experience and really open up opportunities for writing at other influential publications. She had known that she was too young, too few connections, and not enough time put in to really be in the running. She knew though that she was quicker and more determined. It all seemed fair to take more assignments, strategically maneuver the others’ work out of contention, and show everyone why she deserved the promotion. It was not until one of the reporters who had been there a year longer than her, Beth, broke at her desk in front of her that Andy realised just how far she had pushed this competition. 

The dread did not sink into her so much as it crept down her spine. Every vertebrae shivered as the revelation clawed its way it down. She had done it again. The moment had been suspended in front of her, the way forward laid clear, and she had reached forward and took it.

Of course she had offered excuses, veiled it thinly to try and disguise the truth. She had not done anything wrong, really. And she had got the promotion, didn’t she deserve to? 

She could not face that she had chosen herself, again, above all else. That wasn’t her. She could not look. Emily’s eyes, blotted dark with anger and betrayal, staring back at her. 

She had seen every choice, every move, in clear and precise detail.

_You can see beyond what people want and what they need and you can choose for yourself._

There was no denial or delusion to cloak it in. 

Her betrayal, exposed. 

So that night she had left the office and just kept walking. The rush of people and blaring sounds of traffic had shaken her out of her trance somewhat. The bump of a shoulder, the screech of tyres, the relentless whirring in her head. 

She had walked and walked until she found herself at the entrance of the Elias Clark building. She looked up at in surprise, stunned equally that it was still there and that she was too. 

In a moment of almost serendipity, Miranda was there too. Her hair, a silver flame, stood out from the grey and steel. She looked as unaffected by the hour as she did at any other time. But Andy knew Miranda. She could see the drag in her feet, the weight on her shoulders, the way she clutched at the papers in her arm. She paused at the curb, rocking back on her heel as she tapped angrily on her phone, Andy presumed sending something scathing to the minion that had failed to get the car there on time. 

She must have moved closer, because all of sudden Miranda was not looking at her phone, but whirling around at Andy. 

“Yes?” Miranda snapped at her. It was the voice of exasperation, as if Andy was still holding a burning hot Starbucks and was about to ruin her schedule again. And maybe any other night this would have jolted Andy senseless, sent her scrambling away. But that night Andy was cold to her very bones and how could Miranda really ever be that Ice Queen to her again? Andy had seen her shatter, seen her crack. And Miranda saw her for all that she was, eager and greedy. Somehow, they could not shake each other. 

“Turns out you were right about me.” Andy laughs, the sound hollow. 

Miranda does not move. Andy wished she would take her sunglasses off. Her expressions were inscrutable enough, let alone the dark of the night and the tint of her sunglasses. 

“I don’t know anything about you, Andrea.” The words biting and dismissive all at once. 

“No, no. You do. You know that I won’t stop at anything to get ahead, just like you.” 

The car pulled up beside Miranda. The driver jumped out and held the door open. 

“How can you live with it?” 

She thought that Miranda was just going ignore her and get into the car, but the editor’s hand paused on the top of the door. The sunglasses seemed to render Miranda’s face expressionless. 

“You own up to it.” 

Andy had stood there for a long time after the car had pulled away.

She is still, all these years later, trying to work out what Miranda meant. What it could mean for how she lives her life. So she does her best to choose to be kind, anywhere and in any way she can. She goes to see Harriett. She is a good person. She is warm, caring, and wants to help people. This almost helps her feel better about the side of her that would abandon it all in a split second. 

 

***

 

“Morning, babe.” The stubble of Jack’s cheek is rough against Andy’s jaw, his words hot puffs of breath on her skin. His arm is draped heavy over her, her feet resting on his legs. She mumbles a response into her pillow. She knows she has to get up, that she has to go to work, but she also knows that her limbs aren’t listening to her.

“Do you want to call in sick?” she says sleepily, only half-serious.

“Yes.” 

“Okay then.”

She lets herself slip back into dreaming. Eventually, they extract themselves from the comfort of the bed enough to make the necessary phone calls. Then there is another hour on to pull on shirts and pants and socks and shoes to head out into the world. They walk Poppy along to the nearby park, all bristling against the crisp morning air, stop at a cafe for breakfast. Poppy lolls on Andy’s feet while she eats her French toast.

They all load up into Jack’s car and drive out of the city, out into the rush of colours. It’s an afternoon of exploring, wandering, switching between Andy’s CD collection and the crackling of radio stations. Poppy loves getting to run around and smell all the new smells. She tuckers herself out, curling up on the backseat to snooze all the way home. 

On the way, they pull off for an ice cream. Autumn had stretched its cracked reds and browns far and wide but the air was still warm, the sky a friendly speckled blue. She and Jack lean back against the railing in the car park, lazily holding hands with one hand and each cone with the other. 

Andy squints against the late afternoon sun. Jack was wearing her favourite sweater of his. It was a deep forest green, woollen, soft. Memories flicker in front her; nuzzling into the crook of his shoulder as they slow dance in the kitchen, the wool prickling against her chin; the cuffs of the sleeves drooping over her wrists as she wears it at his parents’ house the Christmas they were almost snowed in there; watching Jack move around their apartment, slow and easy. She wonders if he chose it today deliberately because it is her favourite. He knows it is, but does it matter to him? She thinks about the gleam in Nigel’s eye while he waxes poetic about a particular neckline, how Emily’s strikingly vivid nails had clutched at a sample jacket she had been given, or the care with which Miranda caressed a garment. Jack sees practical value, potential, possibilities. Andy doesn’t think he sees the wonder. She was blind to it too, for so long she was. But her eyes had been wrenched open, the awe emblazoned onto her and now she can’t look away. 

There is so much she still wants to know, to see, to feel. She had thought that she would find the world noble, but has found it only disenchanting. And yet, she wants to know every single crevice of it. She cannot bear not getting her hands on every little thing. 

She can’t talk to Jack about this, would not even begin to know how.

He is struggling with his own darkness. Work has been really hard for these past few months. His cases were always brutal and unforgiving, but he seemed to carry the shadows around with him more now. She knew what happened in general terms, a call-out gone wrong, an officer down, Jack holding a kid’s body together until the ambulance could get there to patch back together muscle, blood and bone, he had called her in the middle of the night after the madness was over, just wanting to hear her voice. She did not know what happened to him though. He was never one to shy away from saying how he felt, but this was something else. She knew he was seeing a counsellor, that he had colleagues who understood and supported him. They had tried to talk about at first, but he could not seem to find the words to say to her and she felt like she was coming up short in every possible way. She felt useless as she watched the darkness eclipse him more and more every day. 

And that is the end of it all, isn’t it? They can love each other so so much and still have nothing to say to each other. So this is what she means when talks to her friends, says that Jack is doing great, that they are happy, and that he would support her no matter if she kept working in the same job for thirty years, or took over a company, or started making sandwiches for a living. This is why that doesn’t make her happy enough. Because if he really loved her, really knew her, he would want her to claw her way to the top, demand that she take all that she dreamed of with all her might and not let go. 

This is why it tastes like the truth when Andy admits to Emily, Emily Carlton of all freaking people, “I think I am leaving my husband,” the next time she sees her. It is at some awful young professionals in publishing mixer. The drinks are cheap and awful and Emily, Emily Carlton of all freaking people, is one the least fake people there. So Andy finally says it out loud and all Emily does is huff and throw a hand in the air. “At least Miranda will be pleased to know you’re no longer the torchbearer for having it all.” All Andy can do is laugh and drink the glass of bad wine that Emily hands her. 

 

*** 

 

“Hey Andy, when you have a minute do you wanna come have a chat in the conference room?” Natalie’s voice is plain, uninteresting, but there is mischief in her eyes. Andy keeps her face neutral, but flashes a smile when she nods. She waits until Natalie has left before she grabs a folder out from the bottom drawer of her desk and scurries down the hall.

She sneaks into the conference room as Natalie is setting up the call, linking in all their co-conspirators. Their voices crackled out of the speaker on the table, everyone talking and laughing over each other. 

Natalie and Andy were planning an escape, a break out. A new magazine, something fresh and brave. Andy had thought that Natalie had been joking when she had first pitched the idea to her, but then had thought back to all the long rambling conversations they had about dreams, and frustration, and hopes. Natalie had been at the magazine for years, been with the politics team for just as long and yet had got nowhere close to the promotions she deserved. And with the ways that the magazine was trying to carve itself down to fit in a new media landscape and fiscal tight spots did not point to anything great in the future either. 

Andy was perfectly content where she was, and that aggravated her to no end. A fire in her belly sprung up when she realised how serious Natalie was launching her own publication. Natalie would lead as editor-in-chief and Andy would get to lead a team of her very own. Even now, Andy felt the hunger ring all through her. 

Natalie efficiently scribbled down all the updates the others had to offer: the investors, the legal jargon, the aesthetic choices, administrative staff. Natalie had handpicked her management team from different publications across the city, friends and people whose work she really admired. They had all piled into Natalie’s apartment a few weeks after she had first starting pitching the idea, assorted around her dining room table amongst children’s craft projects and pot plants. They all seemed giddy with the foolishness of what they were doing, striking out on their own into the unknown. Andy hadn’t stopped beaming the entire time. Even now, as they worried about the finer details of web design, she hummed with excitement. 

Of course, there was still the current work to wrestle with, and getting a new publication off the ground was no easy task so it was not all sunshine and rainbows. 

Natalie’s voice cut across the chatter.

“As you know, Alan and I have been having trouble finding a publishing company to take us on board and give us a home. You have all been really helpful, putting your own feelers out there.”

The frenzy of sound from the speaker started up again – suggestions, comments and queries.

Natalie cleared her throat, paused, and then “Elias Clark wants us.”

The chatter exploded again.

“They are cutting down their spending on some of their other titles, wanting to invest in new markets and develop for the future.” 

That was when Andy felt a cold drop shiver down her spine. The feeling wrapped itself around her middle and squeezed. She had been the one to suggest Elias Clark, the one who went with Natalie to the meeting. They had all joked about surviving Miranda Priestly. She had fibbed about how she had always admired the company and thought she had done a pretty good job of it. But the execs had said there was no room, they weren’t looking for any new projects.

So it wasn’t until she asked Natalie after how exactly Elias Clark was reshuffling its publications did that feeling become fear. A few low-selling titles were getting the chop and others down-sizing. _Runway_ was to lose half its budget. 

Andy could not even begin to fathom what this would mean for the magazine but she knew what it meant for Miranda. The end. There was no way, after all the obstacles she had steered _Runway_ , this would be it. They would strip _Runway_ down. It would be relegated to a lower priority, exist as a mere reflection of what it once was. And while it was already on the chopping block, it would be Andy delivering the final blow. 

If Andy didn’t do it, someone else would. Another magazine would shop around soon enough, another offer would be made. But it would be Andy holding the knife. 

And Miranda will know that it was her. 

Because, of course, Miranda was right about her. Andy has been trying, for years, not to think about the ways in which Miranda’s proclamation in Paris rings true. Miranda is a fortune teller in so many ways, prophecising the fates of designs, brands, people. Her cold eyes had skewered her, cut through all her pretence and had laid her bare. Did you see me then? Andy thinks, did you see me underneath that trembling, foolish girl who stood in your office that first day? Was it my defiance, my loose tongue that hinted at what I could be? 

So, when it comes down to it, she votes yes to taking the Elias Clark offer.

 

***

 

Here is something that Andy never thinks about:

She had just jumped ship from _The Mirror_. A few junior editors had managed to scrape an invite to a lavish awards ceremony. Andy is not nominated, but she will be next year. She will win the year after. And even though Andy cannot predict the future but she is no longer skittish about her own ambition. She strides in like she has already won. Her dress clings tight, material snaking around her waist, thin twists of material clinging to her shoulders, a golden heavy necklace slotted around her neck. 

Miranda is there, because of course Miranda is there. The editor barely acknowledges her presence. And why would she? There are so many more important people here and Miranda’s time is precious as always.

So it takes Andy a while to realise that she is not imagining Miranda’s gaze on her shoulders. Every time she would look up, she would catch Miranda just looking away. Magnets. Andy felt herself humming with the energy. 

She managed to get away from the crowds and slip away into the bathrooms. She stood in front of the mirror, pressing her hand against her chest. Her heartbeat frantic and erratic.

Suddenly, Miranda appeared in the bathroom. Their eyes lock in the mirror, Andy gripped her hands on the edge of the vanity. Miranda moved in closer to her, never breaking eye contact with her mirror gaze. She paused behind her, if Andy had shifted back she could have grazed against the soft material of Miranda’s dress. But she kept dead still. Miranda’s hand rose up, slunk up the top of Andy’s spine, fingertips stroking the gold necklace, then slipping underneath it wind their way around Andy’s neck. She splayed her fingers out across Andy’s throat, pushing her chin up and away, exposing her jugular. Only then did Miranda finally break the mirror gaze to examine this new angle. The gold at Andy’s neck had gleamed. Andy’s pulse hammered. Miranda’s touch burned. 

And then Miranda withdrew her hand, her fingers slowly scraping across the nape of Andy’s neck. 

Then, she was gone. 

Andy doesn’t think about this so much that sometimes it keeps her up at night. 

 

*** 

 

The week that Andy leaves her office for the new magazine also is the same week she moves out of her house. 

She had given her two weeks notice, started tying up loose ends and spending late nights helping get the new office set up. 

And she didn’t want to talk to Jack about it. At all. She had only begun to realise that despite the plans being in the works for months now, she had barely mentioned it to him.

So they sat down one night and talked. She told him she was leaving him. She had thought finally saying it would break her. That it would be too hard, and she would just fall apart in front of him. But they were both remarkably steady. Her voice didn’t shake when she explained how they weren’t good for each other anymore, that they had grown too far apart. Jack didn’t cry, or shout or get angry. 

He laid his hands out open on the table. His voice was reasonable, heartfelt, honest, when he said that if she wanted to make it work, they could, he would try anything. She believed him. He never said anything he did not mean. She could see their life fan out in front of her in her mind. They would make sure they were home early at least a couple of nights a week. He would try and talk to her more about the darkness in his head. They would get pregnant. She could see a kid with his dark curly hair, her eyes, tumbling around with a goofy smile. She could be happy. 

She didn’t want it. Not anymore.

She so she puts her hands on top of his, twining their fingers together, as she says she wants a divorce.

She packs a bag and he stands in the doorway as she gets into a taxi. 

She goes to Lily’s. She felt weirdly fine, numb to it all on the drive over. You’re alone, you’re fine, lapped at her mind like the tide. When Lily opens the door, the waves break and she bursts into tears. Lily’s daughter, Madeline, wakes up to all the noise. She curls up next to Andy on the couch, now a make-shift bed, as they all drink hot chocolates. She babbles to Aunt Andy about daycare and cartoons and ducks. Lily hugs her for a long time before she leaves for work the next morning. 

She and Natalie carry their things from their now former office down to Elias Clark together. _Latitude_ , a pipe dream, finally taking its first steps.

“Nat, there’s something you should know.”

“Hmm.”

“I’ve left my husband.”

Natalie looks at with wide eyes. 

“What do you need.”

“Nothing, I just thought you should know.”

 

*** 

 

Andy had been a nervous wreck before starting at the new magazine. She had felt confident in her old team, comfortable. Now, she was going to be the one that everyone looked to. She found that once the nerves subsided, it was actually absolutely thrilling. To decide. To have no-one question her. And Natalie looks to her too. She knows that Natalie is priming her to be the next in line already, and the thought of being Editor in Chief makes her giddy. She had never been more stressed and frustrated and completely full of joy than she had been her final year of college ordering around that newspaper of hers. 

She finds an apartment near the office. It’s small, but tidy. The walls are pale but it gets decent light and the neighbours are quiet. They are a little community of workaholics. She wanders down the hallway with handbag in one hand and Chinese take out in the other and passes Colin coming in from another late night, suit creased and tired eyes, or Anna still fielding phone calls as she wrestles with the lock on her front door. They are nice. Harry invites her round for dinner with him and his wife and children when she has time, time isn’t anything she has had much of these days though. 

She crams as much into her weekends as she can. She goes and hangs out with Lily, or babysits Madeline while she and Ryan go away. Everyone is being so kind to her. Her parents call every other day. Her friends keep checking in on her. Doug drags her out to random gigs and concerts every other weekend with his record label manager boyfriend. 

She keeps up the running. She and Jack had run marathons. Played social football with friends. Jogged with Poppy around the park. Now she just runs the blocks around her apartment building until her legs scream at her to stop and her lungs are on fire. Alana, a friend from her days at the _Mirror_ brings her along to her morning yoga class. Andy moves through the poses without any grace, but likes the stretch and ache in her muscles. She lies on the mat and listens to her breathing rattle up and down her ribcage, watches her stomach rise and fall. 

She sees the news about Miranda’s resignation in the headlines. She must have seen the storm coming, the budget cuts, the shadow of the guillotine above her. She writes a cryptic letter from the editor in the March issue, hands the mantle off to some plucky European woman who has probably has no idea that she is inheriting a shell of a magazine. Seemingly disappears. 

Andy sits in her office, everything at her fingertips. Miranda’s empire recedes, Andy’s rises. 

 

***

 

At least they don’t end up on _Runway’s_ floor. Andy feels strange enough coming back into the Elias Clark building every morning, let alone making the same journey in the elevator, walking through those glass panelled halls again. 

Instead, their offices are a few floors below. It was previously an IT department so the surfaces are dark, the layout simple. Every team has brightened up their area somehow. It is uncoordinated, messy, lovely. Oliver bought in a small army of pot plants, she thinks more for his own sanity than aesthetic value. She catches him watering them sometimes in the long afternoons, a serene look on his face as if he is about to start murmuring stories to them. She had pulled out all her old dorm room posters, a box that had followed her from Northwestern to her apartment with Nate and all the apartments in between and been carried out of Jack’s house one weekend. Celine Dion sits regal on the wall next to her cubicle, Leonardo DiCaprio watches carefully over the breakroom, a faded rainforest peeks out between a rather large aloe vera plant and a ficus. 

Andy’s desk is in the back corner, surrounded by walls of windows. Her team all next to her, lime green dividers partioning them. 

Even a month in, things are still strewn everywhere. The contents of her filing cabinets are sitting in near-toppling towers, a spare chair a haphazard closet where her jackets are draped and shoes cluttered. 

The first issue is approaching rapidly. Andy is so excited to be able to share what they have been piecing together all this time. She thinks it is good, thorough, thoughtful work. Her writers are smart, clever, and she is proud of what they have accomplished already. So she puts in the extra hours to make sure it is the best that it can be. There always seems to be something more to do, more calls to make, articles to proof, pitches to go through. Andy has already grown used to being the last one at the office. Like tonight, the lights of city keeping away the dark of the night, her desk lamp washing amber across her desk. Andy, already in the routine of solitary evening work, almost did not look up when she heard someone approach her desk. 

Somehow, Miranda Priestly is at her cubicle. 

“Hello, Andrea.”

Andy must have fallen asleep at her desk. That is the only explanation for Miranda standing in front of her in some spectacular charcoal coat with something like amusement in her expression at almost 10 o’clock at night. 

“Hi,” Andy manages to say. 

“May I sit?”

“Oh, yeah of course.” Andy gestures to one of the chairs in front of her desk, currently occupied by several early drafts and a particularly potent orange scarf. Miranda gently set them on the floor beside her, and settled back in the seat, her eyes still glinting. 

“Miranda, I, I don’t mean to be rude, but what are you doing here?”

She sets the paper bag she had been carrying on the desk in between them. Pulls two containers out, cutlery, napkins. For a ridiculous moment, Andy thinks a set of lit candles are going to appear too. 

“You haven’t eaten dinner, have you.” It’s not a question.

Andy’s stomach gurgles in response. Andy coughs to try and cover the noise.

“Miranda, that is very kind of you, but really unnecessary.”

Miranda just takes the lids of the containers. A spicy aroma fills the air. It looks like some fancy curry. Probably some restaurant that does not even do take out unless your name is Priestly. 

“I know you have a great deal to do. And to be able to do that, you need to eat.” Miranda says by way of explanation. 

“How did you get in here?”

“The security guard is still afraid of me.” Miranda says picking absentmindedly at the cuff of her sleeve. She passes her a knife and fork, a container. 

Andy watches Miranda start to eat her own meal, her edge of her desk somehow a table at an expensive restaurant judging by her posture. 

After a few minutes with the just the sounds of Miranda eating, she begins to talk.

“When I first became Editor in Chief of _Runway_ , I did not stop for anything. Food, breaks, my children. Trust me when I say it is not sustainable.”

“Well, I’m not you.” Andy does not mean to sound petulant, she does not mean to sound twenty-three years old again in the back of a car in Paris. 

“I know that.” Miranda says sternly. “But it’s late, you don’t have an assistant to run around for you and I want to know that you have eaten at least something in the past six hours.”

Andy thinks why the hell should it matter to Miranda, but picks up the container reluctantly.

The food is delicious. Andy wants to wolf it down in one mouthful but she makes herself take it slow, savour and swallow. She can feel Miranda watching her. She can hear the building whistle and creak around them.

“So are you trying to keep me going long enough so you can kill me yourself?” The food in her belly is courage enough. 

Miranda does not say anything for a long time. She sets down her fork, her knife, down on the desk and her hands down onto her lap. 

“I won’t pretend I wasn’t angry.” The words on contemplative, seemingly detached from their implication. “If you hadn’t taken it though, I would have been more angry. To pass up the offer would have been madness. I’m glad to know you still have your wits about you.”

Andy does not know what to be more stunned by, the food laid out on the desk in between them, or the forgiveness apparently sitting there too. 

“Although, I did find myself missing that over eager girl in Paris who would have stayed with me until the end.” Miranda’s words turn a shade of wistful. Andy remembers how frantically she had run to Miranda, unable to bear the thought of her being hurt again, and right where it would hurt the most. She owes her no loyalty now, and hasn’t for a very long time, but her shoulders still want to slump in shame. 

She remembers how slowly she had walked away. Each step deliberate, weighted.

Andy pokes at her food. 

“I suppose you were warning me in your own way. Once I found out that new projects were being picked up, I saw the writing on the wall.”

Andy wants to ask more. What are you doing now? Do you miss it? How can you not want to just burn this place to the ground? How can you watch _Runway_ stumble on without you? What are you doing here?

Instead, Miranda asks her where the kitchen is. They get up and rinse the cutlery, the containers, recycle and turn the dishwasher on. She walks Miranda to the elevator. 

“I hope you get what you need to get done tonight finished.” Miranda says simply, looking at her. The amusement is gone, replaced with a certain sort of seriousness.

“Thank you.” Andy manages. She stands there for sometime after Miranda has left, then turns back to her desk. And, of course, Miranda is right. Her brain rested, her belly full, she dives back into her article with renewed focus and drive. 

Days later, she will wonder if she dreamed up the entire encounter. 

But even though she is moving so quickly, piecing together the first issue sentence by sentence, running from meeting to meeting, pouring over reports with Natalie and trying to spend as little time alone in her apartment as possible, she remembers it all in vivid detail. 

How Miranda can look just the same after all this time. Her hair still a striking flash of winter, eyes still sharp, still carrying herself like a queen even when her kingdom has crumbled. That she can still terrify Andy to her very core when she comes with generosity in her hands and absolution in her mouth. 

So when Miranda appears in front of her again just over a week later, with amusement in her eyes and paper bag in hand, Andy just smiles and goes to get a pair of bowls from the kitchen. 

 

***

 

One weekend, Andy forces herself to stay indoors all day. She finally finishes unpacking the boxes she had taken from their, Jack’s, house all those months ago. She had gone back two weeks after that night she had first left, when she finally had to admit she needed the rest of her wardrobe, her blankets, her grandmother’s chest of drawers. Jack had offered to help, or to leave her to it if she wanted, but she said he should be there so she didn’t grab everything. So she knocked, like a guest, on the door of the first house she had ever owned. He let her in with a tired smile and sad eyes. “It’s good to see you, Andy.” She believed him. She wanted to say the same, but her heart is already feeling like it is ripping itself into pieces as it is. She had moved around the house like a ghost, trying not to touch too much. Even Poppy had been quiet, just followed her from room to room, brushing against her legs from time to time just to check she was real. She had packed away everything she thought was hers. He had helped her carry the boxes to the car. 

She had left the herbs growing in boxes out on the porch. She knew he would forget to water them, but she did could not cart them to Lily’s. 

The apartment she has now was too small. Her sofa chair stuck awkwardly out from the wall, the coffee table out of place cooped up in the corner. Once she started ripping open all the boxes though, she wanted her life to be spread out and open. She sat photo frames all along the window ledge, devoted a side table to a collection of forgotten secret-santa and birthday present candles. 

She cooked properly for the first time in weeks. Her cupboards were pretty bare but she scrounged together enough supplies for a semi-decent stirfry. She laid back on the sofa chair and tried not to think about the mouth-watering Moroccan creation Miranda had bought her a few nights ago. 

They throw a party in the office for the launch of the first issue the next Friday. The place had only just begun to appear to be somewhat orderly, and was now haphazardly covered in confetti and gold streamers. Andy hasn’t laughed as hard as she did the entire evening for a long time. Her ribs were almost as sore as her head the next morning. 

She even gets a laugh out of Miranda the next time she sees her. Her night-time visits are unpredictable but somehow consistent. She does not come every week, but it never seems to be like too long before she is there again. Andy has stopped trying to figure it, or her, out. 

“Here’s an early copy, top secret.” She had handed Miranda after they had finished their dessert (Andy’s jaw had literally dropped when Miranda had pulled the chocolate mousse out) a glossy freshly printed copy of their debut edition. 

“I’m honoured.” Miranda had chuckled, thumbing through it briefly and then placing it in her handbag. Andy almost believed her. 

The next week, Miranda had bought it back with her, the pages dog eared and creased. Andy had been suddenly filled with nerves that Miranda was going to give her notes, pass her back the magazine riddled with red pen and disappointment. But instead Miranda had thoughtful questions, not praise exactly but evidence that it had all meant something to her, something worth reading and thinking about more. 

The week after that, Andy had not wanted to see Miranda at all. All she wanted was to be left alone. People had been at her all day. Jack had called in the morning. The divorce was nearing final, only a matter of months left. They had not really talked, a few meetings here and there, texts exchanged with perfunctory greetings and sticking to essential details. His voice on the line disarmed her. It was warm, raspy, and she was suddenly yearning. Their dog, sweet old Poppy, had been hit by a car. She was going to be put down tonight, he asked if Andy wanted to be there. Of course Andy did. But she knew she had to stay late. She knew Jack’s new girlfriend would be there. She had not seen Poppy properly since she had packed up the last of her things. Jack had offered some sort of shared custody arrangement. But her apartment building didn’t allow for pets. She never had time to go over to walk her herself. She never wanted to step foot back in that house again. 

Her stomach wobbled and her throat was choked up all day. She is so so sad about Poppy and misses Jack so much she cannot breathe. 

Finally the office begins to clear out and Andy can just sit at her desk in silence. 

The sound of Miranda’s high heels against the floor grate against Andy’s ears. 

“Good evening, Andrea.”

Andy did not look up, just kept staring at the same page she had been for twenty minutes now. 

Miranda did not inquire further. She placed whatever tonight’s feast was on the part of the desk Andy tended to leave empty now. Andy could hear her walk off to the kitchenette, and then come back presumably with whatever they needed. She did not hear Miranda step around, over what had been a boundary until now, to the other side of the desk. She jumped a bit with fright as Miranda placed a gentle but firm had on her shoulder. 

“What is it?” 

Andy felt so stupid and little. It was just a dog. Just a divorce. Just wanting to run back across the city, across time, and fall back into his arms. 

“Jack, uh…” she trails off, rubs her hands over her face. She finally looks up at Miranda and is taken aback at her expression. Thunder. In her eyes, a storm. 

“What did he do?” Her voice is low, almost-deadly. 

Andy’s breathing is shallow, eyes stinging. The question is the wrong one, but the answer has been wearing her down all day. 

“I miss him.” That’s when her voice, catches and the tears start to fall. 

She looks back down at her desk, lays her hands down flat, trying to steady herself. 

“Please, please leave.” Her voice is small, and gasping. She can’t look back at Miranda. 

“Why?” Miranda’s voice is the same as if someone had said that they can’t get a dress shipped overnight, or if a photographer wasn’t available. 

“Because I managed to not cry in front of you for so long when I worked for you and I don’t want to start now.”

But Miranda does not leave. She clamps her fingers around Andy’s wrist and does not move while Andy sobs in an ugly and wounded way. When she finally looks at Miranda, she has knelt down, their gaze level.

“I would rip him out of your heart if I could.”

Her words are heavy, severe, and her eyes dark. Her grip on Andy’s wrist tightens. 

 

***

 

She thought that the office might find a rhythm of sorts once the first issue had come out. And in some ways that had begun, but it was still manic most of the time. Andy kind of loves it though. People look to her and trust the courses she sets. 

Natalie was not a sentimental person, but sometimes she would catch Andy’s hand in the course of the day and tug her to a stand still. “Look at what we’ve done.” She’d smile and then gaze around. “Look at what we’ve made.”

And it its moments like that when everything shines and Andy’s stomach is full of butterflies and she is fifteen years old again and wanting to change the world. 

In the rare moments where things are running at a level less than pandemonium, she fiddles again with the card that Miranda had given her the last time she had seen her. “Come on,” the former editor had instructed, guiding Andy to gather her things and walked her out of the building. They shared a taxi back to Andy’s apartment, and just as Andy had been getting out, just wanting to go crawl under her duvet and never come back out again, Miranda had placed a small card in Andy’s hand. 

“My personal cell number. If you ever need anything.” 

Andy had stared at incredulously for a moments as her brain stuttered. 

“Thank you. Good night.” She had managed and then fled into her building. 

It had taken a few days to shake her grey mood. She had still felt a little delicate the next day, preferring to hole up her in office and work alone. Even Harriett, with her big eyes and endless questions had stayed away. She went to Jack’s the next day after work, laid flowers on the grave he dug in the backyard and had a beer with him in Poppy’s honour. She had been dreading it but she had felt a somewhat calm wash over her as she had stepped into the place that she had once loved and saw the man that had once been her world. It didn’t look too much different. The furniture was new, no more photos of her on the walls. Jack had grown his beard out. It made him seem older. She guessed she probably looked older too. They didn’t talk about too much, she didn’t stay too long. She took the soft toy elephant Poppy had treasured away with her.

Now, she chewed her lip and traced the phone number. It was only six o’clock and there were still people hunched over desks but nothing she had was urgent. She felt ready to go home. 

Miranda picks up on the fourth ring.

“Hello?”

“Hi Miranda, it’s Andy. Andy Sachs.” She finishes with a nervous laugh. 

“Oh, good evening Andrea. I wasn’t planning on coming around tonight, but I can drop by later if you are still going to be at the office?” 

Andy is struck by how different this phone conversation is from any they had had all those years ago, back when Miranda’s tone was clipped and usually cranky. Her voice was still crisp, efficient. Andy guessed that was just Miranda. But here was care, concern. 

“Actually, I was wondering,” Andy began, “well, you’ve organised all our meals so far and I thought it was time I contributed. Can I cook for you tonight, at my place?”

There is a beat of silence long enough for Andy to blush furiously and wish she had never called at all. But then, Miranda says, says softly, “that sounds lovely, Andrea.” 

“Great, uh, what time would suit you? I need to grab a few things from the store on the way home but,”

Miranda cuts her off, “I just finished a meeting around the block from Elias Clarke, I can meet you in the lobby in five minutes?”

And that is how Andy ends up grocery shopping with Miranda. 

It is actually just unfair, Andy thinks, that Miranda can still look so majestic under fluorescent lighting. Even when she is just comparing varieties of mushrooms amongst the other evening shoppers, she looks like she has stepped out of some exclusive Fashion Week party. Tonight, she is wearing a dove grey blouse that seems to float around her, an embroidered black pencil skirt and high heels that Andy bets are worth more than all her pay-cheques at _Latitude_ so far.

It’s an odd sensation to move around the aisles with a woman so lavish. To walk slowly, chat about nothing in particular with a woman who usually does not have time for anyone. It’s relaxing in an eerie sort of way.

Andy has opted for a risotto. She splashes out on some fresh salmon, nice vegetables and a bottle of red wine to have too. She is suddenly nervous as she leads Miranda up the stairs, down the hallway, her hand shaking a little as she turns the key in the lock. Her apartment is always tidy, she does not really spend enough time in it for it to be a real tip, and she had given it a thorough clean only the other day. But she knows Miranda can see what it really is. A halfway house, somewhere for Andy’s belongings and body to rest since being jilted from their home, until finding where they are meant to be. 

“It’s, small.” Is what Miranda actually says. Considering what a mean person Miranda Priestly is, Andy thinks she has got off lightly. 

“Yep,” she breathes and then piles the bags onto the counter. 

Miranda sits at the barstool, elbows leaning on the countertop, as Andy stands at the stove. She had commanded her to sit, and was kind of amazed that it worked. Andy chops vegetables and stirs away the risotto, the tinkling of Miranda’s voice mixing with the steam in the air. 

Andy is still only just beginning to understand what Miranda has been doing since she left _Runway_. She hadn’t wanted to ask directly, did not want to pick at sore wounds, provoke the beast. But while Miranda is never one to explain herself, she tells Andy things. How she spends her days, who she spends them with, what she wants. She has stepped up her role on the various charity boards she is a part of, become more involved in curation at the Museum, has been slowly pulling strings all around the city. Andy gets the feeling she is planning something big, just biding her time and sowing the seeds. 

Andy ends up telling her about Poppy. Her floppy ears, her bounciness and how she was just the right size to curl up on the sofa with. 

Miranda tells her how Patricia passed away a couple of years ago, how devastated she and the girls had been. Cassidy and Caroline had given Miranda two kittens when they both moved away for college last year. Miranda was still on the fence on cats as a concept.

“They are just, so difficult to please. I never know what they want.” Miranda says, disgruntled.

Andy just looks at her, a smile quirking at the side of her mouth. 

“Oh stop it.”

“I’m sorry, what would you know about hard to please anyway?” Andy laughs. 

Miranda just rolls her eyes. “I want the best, I don’t know what is so hard about that.”

“Exactly.”

Miranda leans her chin on her hand, looking almost villain-like as she considers Andy with a gleam in her eye. 

“You’re a demanding boss, aren’t you Andrea?”

Andy opens her mouth to protest, but swallows it back. She is no bully. She does not accept shoddy work. She lets everyone have their say, makes sure people feel respected and supported. She stays late most nights, but she never makes anyone else. She does enough, doesn’t she?

“I’m, reasonable.” She ends up saying. 

“But you want the best?”

Andy just furrows her brow even more. 

“Eat your dinner.” She says pushing the bowl she had just served up across to Miranda. 

 

  
***

 

  
Andy and Natalie go to the Gala. Their magazine is new and exciting, something for Elias Clarke to dangle in front of competitors and investors alike. 

Natalie had called her a few hours before, as stressed as she had ever heard her, about what to wear. 

“I’ve been wearing pantsuits for twenty years, Andy. I’ve got nothing to work with!”

“You couldn’t have bought this issue up with me earlier? Maybe like given me a day or two to get you sorted out?” 

So Andy had the very odd experience of being the person who was sought for fashion advice. She stayed on the phone for almost an hour and a half as Natalie tried on dresses she hadn’t worn since she first starting dating her husband Paul, pausing to look at photos she had sent for further consultation. By the time she met Natalie in the lobby of the event, she was already exhausted of glamour. 

“Wow, Andy.” 

Andy glanced down at her teal wrap dress, running her hands down the front self-consciously. It had been an impulse purchase a year ago and she had not found the chance to wear it out yet. 

“See, hon. This is why I passed over you for dress consultation.” She pats Paul on the arm. Natalie did look fantastic. The charcoal dress with gold embroidery did look a bit dated, but neither of them really gave a damn. Paul looked very handsome, his suit a bit time-worn too.

“Thank you again, really.” 

Andy just shrugged.

“You always dress so nicely, Andy.”

Andy tries not to think about the extra effort she has been putting in lately, just in case Miranda dropped by.

“Let’s go.” She links arms with Natalie and they enter the fray.

Andy had not been a wide-eyed kid for a long time, but even she appreciated the beauty of the ballroom. Flowers bloomed from the pillars, bouquets adorned every table. The lighting cast a soft glow over the ballroom, making it feel almost dreamlike. 

It didn’t help smooth out the tiredness on people’s face, the slouches in posture and darting eyes to watches and phones that these occasions on a weeknight bought with them. Andy still felt a bit of a kick of just being there, and sipped at her glass of wine happily. 

She was soon separated from Natalie and Paul, who got caught up by questions about the new magazine. Old friends and colleagues kept bumping into her and introducing her to be people she _oh absolutely_ had to meet. Andy found herself chatting amongst a group of publishing executives and making up for how out of her depth she was with sheer bravado. 

“Well we’ll Ms Sachs, you sure do feel strongly about the matter.” She nodded enthusiastically, although she had lost track of the conversation much earlier. 

“Yes, our Andrea is never afraid to back down from a challenge.” Miranda’s voice was silk and Andy didn’t even startle as she appeared at her side. 

“Good evening, Miranda.” She beamed, taking in the pristinely assembled La Priestly. 

Andy had sometimes wondered if Miranda’s wardrobe had weathered the loss of _Runway_ and all that it bought its leader. Clearly though, the brightest minds of the fashion world had not abandoned the woman that had made them great. The midnight blue of Miranda’s dress made her eyes all the more piercing, the fabric cutting across her collarbones in a high neckline and fitting her absolutely perfectly. Neither of them compliment each other’s appearances, but there is something in Miranda’s gaze that makes Andy shiver. 

The evening is a whirl of introductions, gossip and not enough food. She gets caught up in far too many heavy conversations with people she does not really care for. It is a relief when Miranda joins her as she debates the death of print media with some ancient executives. It still amazes Andy how Miranda can charm people with just a few lines and a smile Andy knows it fake. And she is in her element here, turning the tables on the stuffy old men that Andy had just spent the better of ten minutes suffering through. 

“I don’t know how much we have left to say, really. It’s a young man’s game now, isn’t that right Priestly?” The man in the suit and horrendously mustard tie laughs in such a way that he might give Miranda a clap on the back as well. 

“Yes, Ms Sachs here is on the rise while we are getting our retirement cruises booked aren’t we?” another chuckles. 

Andy can almost hear Miranda’s teeth clenching. And so Andy launches into a speech of sorts about the importance of having women in the industry who had the experience of years of hard work and determination. That Miranda Priestly was just the kind of person that publishing needed and just because she wasn’t at the forefront of a leading magazine anymore did not mean that she was gone at all. She was just about to start to lecture them on all that Miranda was doing now when the subject of her praises cut across her. 

“Well now, that is quite enough Andrea.” Her voice was light but Andy could see the severity in her eyes. Andy just shrugged and smile, kind of proud of herself. She spotted Natalie across the room and excused herself to go see her. She and Paul were reluctantly making their way out so they could relieve the babysitter. 

“I think our next date night will not involve a black tie dress code” Natalie huffed, leaning against Paul. 

“But the open bar would be a welcome feature!” Paul laughed, handing his wife one last cocktail. They all knocked back their drinks and Andy gave them both a hug goodbye. Not quite ready to get back amongst it, she went to go touch up her makeup. The bathroom was mercifully empty so she took a few minutes to check her phone, roll her neck, and breathe. She is almost considering giving her feet a break by taking off her shoes when Miranda strides in. 

“Oh, it’s you,” she says flatly and then almost flings her clutch onto the bathroom counter as she stalks over to it. 

Andy’s chest seizes, what has she done? She’s Miranda’s friend, not her assistant so she’s hardly responsible for any unseen mistake or inadvertent disaster. She opens her mouth to ask what’s the matter when Miranda, stooped over the sink, anticipates her question.

“I do not need you to defend me,” she grits out, shoulders tensed.

“I wasn't. I was just telling them the truth, and so what if I was?”

The bathroom door suddenly opens, a leggy blonde with wide eyes walks in. Miranda snarls, “go away” and the girl almost falls overself trying to get out again. Miranda turns back to Andrea, eyes blazing. 

Andy searches for something to say, but it all doesn’t seem to make sense anymore. Her own pulse was deafening to her, couldn’t Miranda hear it? Her skin crackled alight, couldn’t she see it? Miranda took a step forward, and suddenly Andy was in motion. Her hands grasp at Miranda’s arms and mouths crash together. Miranda gasped against Andy’s lips and then her hands encircle Andy’s face, pulling her closer. Andy can’t get enough, she is burning burning burning. Miranda pushes her up against the edge of the bathroom counter, the edge digs into the back of Andy’s thighs. Miranda moulds herself up against her, her tongue slides into Andy’s mouth. There is an electricity under Miranda’s skin too. She moans as Andy’s hands move across her bare shoulders, moves her mouth away so she can kiss the column of Andy’s throat, bite the side of her neck. Andy jolts with each touch, whimpering. 

“Oh, Andrea” Miranda breathes against Andy’s shoulder, her voice and body shaking, and it sounds like love. 

Andy freezes. Miranda must feel the shift because she pulls away, concern starting to blot out the arousal colouring her face. Andy’s stomach twists and she can feel tears welling up in her eyes.

“I can’t, I can’t. I’m so sorry” she winds her way out of Miranda’s arms. 

“Andrea, wait!” she hears Miranda hoarsely shout after her but she is already out the door. The rush home is a blur. She somehow made it across the ballroom, got her coat, grabbed a taxi and made it back to her building without falling apart. Stupid, stupid girl. She could not believe what she had done. Sleep comes to her easy though, silencing the roaring in her head.

The next morning she wakes up exhausted. There are no missed messages from Miranda on her phone. Well, you were the one to run away, Andy berates herself. Again. It’s a Saturday so she makes herself eat, go running, clean, do laundry. She thinks about her first political science Professor at college, about how her heart had raced anytime she had answered a question in class and how she would memorise the rhythm of her voice. She thinks about stammering around her high school soccer team’s captain, throwing herself into every game to earn her praise and not knowing where to look whenever she was nice to her. She thinks about the butterflies in her stomach anytime Miranda turned up at her office, how she feels like she can touch the sky after one of their dinners. She thinks about how she managed to rot the love she thought she would have with her all of her life. Her mind circles around how terrified she is she will do that again. 

Because Miranda isn’t just some crush. Miranda is a force of nature. She tore into Andy’s life all those years ago, ripped her eyes open to a whole new world and to herself. She is all consuming. Andy is entirely lost but she knows that loving Miranda Priestly is not something that can be done by halves.

Doug comes over for dinner before they head over to some hot new band’s show downtown. He doesn’t comment on her solemn demeanour, just fills the silences with chatter about his week. As they wander down to the venue, he takes her arm and presses a quick kiss to her cheek.

“Cheer up, buttercup.” 

Andy just gives him a weak smile, squeezes his arm. She wants to talk to him about it. Wants to ask him when did he know he was gay? Every since Andy had known Doug, it had always been a part of who he was. Andy had never thought about being able to spend her life with a woman. It all seems very far away, like a dream that Andy can’t quite remember. But the idea of spending her life with Miranda, specifically is something that Andy can actually get a grip on. Miranda knows her, knows her work, wants her to take on the world and win. Andy can sketch out evenings together, knows the peace that comes from talking to someone who really hears you, feels the electricity that hums between them. Miranda sees her dark side. She sees Miranda’s vulnerability. Their jagged edges line up. Her heart jumps in panic with how badly she wants this, this life with Miranda. 

“Hey, Doug?” Andy asks as they are walking back to her building after the show. “Are you happy?”

“Of course I’m happy. I’m here with my best friend in the greatest city in the world” he laughed throwing his arms wide. He loops an arm around Andy’s shoulder and she settles against his shoulder as they walk. 

“What’s this all about, Andy?”

Andy just shakes her head, still unable to find the words. 

“Well, whatever is going on in that pretty little head of yours, do know that I really am happy. And I want you to be too. You are my favourite person Andy Sachs and you deserve to be happy.”

And maybe it is all just as simple as that. 

So she gets on the subway the next morning and makes her way to Miranda’s townhouse. She stands on the stoop for a moment, gathering every bit of bravery she has. It takes long enough for Miranda to answer the door that Andy almost wonders if she isn’t home. 

“I don’t want to fight anymore,” Miranda says quietly, sadly. Andy does not think that she means arguments or shouting or throwing things. She thinks she means something like unclenching fists, breathing deeply, something like surrender. 

Andy’s voice cowers in the back of throat. The words shudder out slowly.

“You have to be careful with me.”

Miranda takes her hands so gently, Andy wonders if she not only feels like she is made of glass but looks like it too. Transparent and about to shatter. Their foreheads touch. Andy reaches out to kiss her, slow and deliberate. Miranda can be hard, Miranda can be soft. Here, she is all sweet perfume and unsteady heartbeats.


End file.
